Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 25
Chapter 81 of 146 · 1 min read
THE MUSHROOM.
The mushroom is the elf of plants, At evening it is not; At morning in a truffled hut It stops upon a spot
As if it tarried always; And yet its whole career Is shorter than a snake's delay, And fleeter than a tare.
'T is vegetation's juggler, The germ of alibi; Doth like a bubble antedate, And like a bubble hie.
I feel as if the grass were pleased To have it intermit; The surreptitious scion Of summer's circumspect.
Had nature any outcast face, Could she a son contemn, Had nature an Iscariot, That mushroom, — it is him.
